


Kiss me Goodbye

by Raspberries_Heartbeat



Series: Insights in the domestic life of the 221B Baker Street family [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Comforting Sherlock Holmes, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Insecure John, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Love Confessions, M/M, Parent John Watson, Parentlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock is a Good Parent, Smug Sherlock, rosie ships it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 17:29:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11559969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raspberries_Heartbeat/pseuds/Raspberries_Heartbeat
Summary: The touch was feather-light and only lasted a second; but this second was enough for John to realize three fundamental things at the exact same time:                                                                                                                                                               1) Sherlock tasted like a delicious combination of overly sweet coffee and minty toothpaste, a combination that really shouldn’t be tasty, but oddly enough it was; 2) Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, had just kissed him; 3) John wanted him to do it again.---Sherlock suprises John in the best kind of ways. John realizes he had been an idiot all along. Rosie just wants to built her Lego castle.---Disclaimer: I don't own the characters





	Kiss me Goodbye

Rosie Watson was an incredible happy toddler. Smiling and laughing all day long, almost never causing a fuss (and God forbid if she was… that girl had temperament!), enjoying the world with her bright eyes filled with childish delight.  Her father, John Watson, was deeply thankful for every minute he got to spend with his little treasure. Sure, there were long days of surgery and cases, and endless nights where Rosie had to stay with her make-shift Nana Mrs. Hudson.

Nights, where John Watson suddenly grew very quiet and doubt himself. Nobody noticed, of course, for the good doctor tried to keep his private life as private as possible. Nobody noticed, except for the man who always noticed, no one less than the world’s only consulting detective, John Watson’s best friend, Sherlock Holmes. Who choose, so very un-Sherlock-like, not to comment on the matter, wheatear out of friendliness or pity John wasn’t so sure. On these nights, the great captain, the great doctor, the proud Afghanistan survivor crumbled in the early hours of the morning in the solitude of his bedroom over the prospect of being a single-parent. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was clueless most of the time, just trying to make the very best out of the twisted situation they found themselves caught in. And he was scared. So fucking scared most of the time.

Mary wasn’t… Mary hadn’t been easy, but during those moments he missed her so dearly, and it felt so sincere. Although being mysterious and not at all what she seemed, she had been a wonderful friend. A silent reassurance at his quivering side in times of doubt. He had loved her, once, and he learned to love her again, but differently.  The reality of a life, a life of their family without her, crashed down on him with full force and shook him violently with silent sobs. John hated himself for this weakness, for feelings so raw, so alone- but he couldn’t help it. This wasn’t the way anything of this should play out, this just wasn’t right- Rosie deserved parents, she deserved a mother, and not a father who drowned himself in self-pity as soon as he wasted thoughts about her future. But shit, why did he have to fight alone? John Watson didn’t want to fight alone anymore, not this battle. And, miraculously (actually no, the man wasn’t a genius observer for nothing), a gentle presence would pick up his violin at four in the morning and play a soothing tune, a tune so familiar, so safe, so home, so… Sherlock, that John Watson suddenly didn’t feel alone anymore. For as long as they were together, wrapped in the security of the flat in 221B Backer Street, they’d figure it out. They always did in the end.

These nights occurred less and less frequent as time moved on. They had shaken him up in the beginning, leaving him red-eyed and exhausted in the mornings; looking almost as dead as he felt. Sherlock gave him an expression he couldn’t quite place when he slumped at their kitchen with the night’s unpleasantries clearly written all over his face.  On very rare occasion, when night terrors accompanied the crippling self-doubt and he barely limped to his chair, Sherlock stood, looking utterly lost and helpless for a second, before he crossed the room in two long steps and hugged the fragile doctor to his chest. John sank into these moments of comfort gratefully, seeking Sherlock’s warmth and the pulse of the man’s blood against his ear. Sherlock was alive, and so was John. They were together, it would be fine. As long as Sherlock was there, everything would be fine.

Then, there were other mornings, mornings where he was greeted by a giddy three-year old jumping up on down on his bed; looking so much like Mary with her bouncing honey locks and the smiling eyes, that John thought himself an idiot. This girl, this bundle of energy and light was his daughter, and she loved him in such an easy, unconditional way, how could he ever doubt that? He found her to be exactly the thing his life had lacked: His most precious treasure, but also the source of his greatest despair. Whenever those featherlight kisses on his cheeks, and nose, and mouth woke him from a restless slumber, John Watson remembered that it was all worth it. Worth for the delighted giggles when he scooped up his Rosie in his arms for a Good-Morning cuddle.

Rosie Watson was also an incredibly smart toddler, much to the delight of her best friend, Sherlock Holmes. Her vocabulary was way above average for her age group, she found delight in solving little puzzles, and learned new skills twice as fast as any child John Watson had ever witnessed. He blamed on the proximity to his genius flatmate for most of her time awake. Rosie adored Sherlock, it was blatantly obvious. She loved the new words he taught her, or the fun chemical experiments they conducted (“Nothing poisonous, John, I assure you!”), or when he played the violin for her, or when he praised for being so smart. She was giddy and happy as soon as Sherlock was in sight, and wouldn’t stop bouncing until he picked her up and let her play with his curls. He had had his doubts, John had to admit it. Sherlock and a toddler was an equation he would have never dreamed of in his lifetime. It was simply absurd- the great sociopath, the stone-cold detective, the genius scientist- reading a children’s book about bees while patting one Rosie Watson’s hair. However, wonders never ceased to occur when it came to Sherlock Holmes, for John found that he underestimated his flatmate’s skill when it came to children (and apparently, Rosie’s charm in winning the “sociopath” over).  Sherlock adored Rosie about as much as she adored him. Most of the time, when not out on a case, Sherlock babysat Rosie while John was out for the surgery. The first year had been rough; his daughter hadn’t been an easy baby, but Sherlock had proven himself as a gentle presence, a caring friend, and simply all the things John wouldn’t have never thought he could be. Now, two years later, the three of them were a fantastic team. John was endlessly grateful for Sherlock just being… Sherlock with a touch more gentleness, affection, caring. Something about watching his best friend idly coloring with his little princess at the living-room table while “Frozen” (Still Rosie’s favorite) blasted in the background and Nana Hudson’s biscuit crumbles were still stuck on their hands made John’s heart swell. It was a love he had never known, a love he never found himself deserving of, a love that radiated from the idle display of affection between the treasure of his life, and the wonderful mad-genius-bastard he called his best friend. It was the part of the day he looked most forward to: Coming home to his favorite people in the whole wide world. Life, so it seemed, was finally kind to John Watson.

So, naturally, the John Watson in question wasn’t at all too eager when he put on his coat to leave for the surgery on one rainy Wednesday morning.  He woke up content, but way too early with a face full of eager toddler, who insisted on “playing before Daddy leaves”. Because he just couldn’t say no to the soft, breathy voice of his little girl calling him “Daddy”, he grumbled playfully, but agreed anyway. She had him wrapped around her little finger, and he was all too willing to do every humanly thing possible to make her happy. Sherlock joined them as a pleasing presence on their early morning lego built mission, and distracted Rosie enough for John to get ready without her being too sad about his inevitable departure. They were in the midst of a discussion about the construction of their second lego castle, when John cleared his throat to announced that he had to leave. He held out his arms for Rosie to give him a hug, and laughed when she skillfully attached herself to his neck instead. “Alright, little monkey” he picked her up and gave her a nose kiss, while she giggled at the nickname. “Daddy, you’re silly”, she smiled widely. Then her expression turned serious. “Daddy comes home, soon?”                                                                                                                                                                                                                

“As soon as I can, princess” John assured her. “Meanwhile, you and Sherlock have a good time” The Sherlock in question emerged next to John and gave him a warm smile. It was one of those rare smiles that covered his whole face, a smile that seemed to be reserved for him and Rosie only. It made John feel all fuzzy and warm inside, buzzing with an emotion he couldn’t quite place. He stifled a cough to overplay it, but he was sure Sherlock’s ever observant eyes had noticed. Glad he wasn’t commenting on it, John placed his daughter gently in Sherlock’s open arms. The sadness about her father’s nearing absence already forgotten, Rosie started to babble happily: “’Lock (John’s heart melted a little every time he heard her calling Sherlock by the special nickname she gave him) promised we’d make an ‘xperiment with Nana!” John feigned interest, but his eyes twinkled bemused at Sherlock who mouthed “Muffins” in his direction. This man…. John would never cease to be surprised by him!                                                                                    

“I see, then take care my little scientists”. John leaned in and gave Rosie a soundful kiss, the kind of tickly, sweet Daddy-kisses she liked best, on her smiling mouth. He the brushed Sherlock’s arm in an affectionate gesture (They grew more and more acuminated to physical touch, and John had to admit that he was more than a little happy about it; Sherlock’s hugs were the best kind of hugs), and tipped his head slightly upwards to thank Sherlock for his babysitting, when something happened that John had not been ready for.

Something so incredibly unlikely that he would have laughed at anyone who suggested it. Something… he had never admitted himself he longed for until the moment that it happened. The moment when Sherlock – mad genius, world’s only consulting detective, insufferable bastard, assistant-parent, John Watson’s Sherlock – brushed his lips softly against John’s.

The touch was feather-light and only lasted a second; but this second was enough for John to realize three fundamental things at the exact same time:     

1) Sherlock tasted like a delicious combination overly sweet coffee and minty toothpaste, a combination that really shouldn’t be so tasty, but oddly enough it was; 2) Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, had just kissed him; 3) John wanted him to do it _again_. Standing there like the metaphorical deer in the headlight, John stared with comically widened eyes at this mystery of a man, while his brain desperately tried to come up with anything to say that wasn’t a swearword. Because, _holy shit_ , Sherlock, _what the hell_?! The detective had straightened his back again, looking as smug as ever, as if he didn’t just change the rules of the whole fucking universe. Rosie, oblivious to the wonder she had just witnessed, babbled a hurried “Bye Daddy”, eager to get back to her legos, and wriggled out of Sherlock’s hold, ready to start the second princess castle of the day. “I’ll be there in a sec”, the detective whispered into her curls before he put her down and she was off to the livingroom.

Then, as casually and as graceful as one with a shit-eating grin plastered to their face could, Sherlock draped himself against the doorframe. He studied John’s impression of a fish out of the water bemused. “Don’t think in such a language, John, there is a child present”. Right. ‘Get out of my fucking head’, John wanted to say. Instead, his mouth made an adventurous attempt to get to the core of the situation: “I….. you.. I mean _you_ … Sherlock?” The detective just smiled, with a devious boyish charm that made him look so much younger, so much more _kissable_ , pardon me. Right. John Watson had lost his mind. Or Sherlock Holmes had lost his mind. Maybe they both did lose their minds. Which made a three-year-old the only sane person in the flat. Lovely… just… lovely. Was he certain he had woken up this morning? Maybe all of this was a really weird dream, it had to be, not in a million years would Sherlock… would he?  “Technically, I just did” If the grin would grow any bigger, John would have to punch it off his face. Or kiss it off his face. Preferable the second of the two options (Woah, where the fuck did that come from?!).

Now, John Watson never considered himself a man of labels. Straight, gay, bisexual, what did it matter? Love whoever you like, as long as you’re happy. He had chosen his partners likewise, male or female, for all of his life. Then Sherlock happened an everything became complicated. For Sherlock was the embodiment of what one would call “complicated” and John strangely found himself attracted to Sherlock’s quirkiness. Others deemed him insane, but the sneers, the experiments, even the body parts didn’t bother him. Instead he found it endearing. Sherlock was just… Sherlock. Possibly the most authentic person John had ever met, and if John Watson fell for one thing, it was a, authentic personality. And a rush of adrenalin. And dashing looks. All three were provided by the lanky detective, who just as well happened to throw himself very forceful out of his league (“Married to my work”), forceful enough for John to never try to start… something. Forceful enough that John felt bad for even considering these feelings and politely locked them away in the darkest corner of his mind, to never be thought again. Still, all of his other dates had since blushed in comparison with the genius who waited for him at home. Oh, and then he got married to a fucking assassin who had shot the man he was so madly gone for in the chest. John Watson really had his way with the ladies. When the years rushed by, many things changed. They changed, but somehow managed to stay close, become closer even, despite all the fucking odds. They were together at Baker Street at last, after all. The only home John had ever known in London. And it was all thanks to the insufferable bastard who had the nerve to kiss him in the doorway on a Wednesday morning.

John Watson wanted to bang his head against the wall but vowed against it (he was a father after all and had to pose as an example for his daughter). Questions swirled in his mind, questions of ‘how long’s and ‘why now’s and ‘this better not be an experiment, I swear to God’s, but they all vanished when a smile replaced the smug expression on Sherlock’s face. It was that kind of smile that made the corners of his eyes wrinkle and crooked the right end of his mouth a bit more upwards, creating a charming display of genuine happiness. It was also one manic glint in his eyes away from becoming the smile Sherlock would share with a triple homicide crime scene with no weapons to be found, but John choose to discreetly ignore the fact.

Instead, he caught up on all the years he chastised himself from staring at his flat mate too blatantly. So, he let his eyes roam shamelessly. The wanker had the physic that reminded the army doctor of the marble statues in Rome, and the aura of a masterpiece of a Victorian artist. Combined with the natural grace in his every movement that even made something as mundane as making tea look like a dance, he was a work of art. And oh, don’t even get me started on that arse! ( _Okay_ , time to drag your head out of the gutter, John Watson). Of course, John had noticed all these details from the start (He wasn’t blind, dammit), but still… it’s a whole different level if the most handsome genius in London was potentially interested in… what? A relationship? Friendship plus?  John couldn’t be arsed to care, as long as Sherlock wanted _him_ (which was a miracle in itself).

The loud sound of Mrs. Hudson’s grandfather’s clock startled the doctor out of his post-Sherlock-kissed-me-daze (He decided later on, that he would arrange his personal time-line with the measurement of ‘pre-Sherlock’s-kiss’ and ‘post-Sherlock’s-kiss’ in order to commemorate this life changing moment).  He then realized that he had been standing there doing nothing but staring like a fucking idiot for at least five minutes and that he was precisely two minutes away from having to hurry. Sherlock seemed to be aware of the time too, because he muttered in a low rumble: “You’re going to be late” No, he _was_ late, and the doctor didn’t give two flying fucks about it. This might be the most important moment of his life since Rosie was born, and he wouldn’t let it be ruined by his schedule. Or so he thought bravely, so he was ready to voice it and in a fit of passion throw the sneaky detective against the wall to show him that John Three Continents Watson wasn’t just some blushing virgin that shut down because a fucking Michelangelo kissed him- until everything deflated when he met Sherlock’s eyes.

The intensity of the gaze and the momentarily dilation of the pupils was enough to knock all the air out of John’s lungs. He suddenly didn’t feel so daring anymore. To his mortification, a blush crept slowly from his neck upwards and he would be damned if Sherlock didn’t look smug when he noticed. To save the last scraps of his pride, John did what a Watson did best in a moment of humiliation: Cover and flee.

“Yeah”, he coughed awkwardly in a weak attempt to give Sherlock another explanation for his sudden increase of body temperature (Sherlock didn’t buy it). “I should get going” John didn’t miss the tiny flash of disappointment in Sherlock’s eyes when he turned to face the doorknob. John also didn’t miss the slight hunch in the detective’s posture when he realized John wouldn’t comment on the kiss. Or repeat it.  The detective visibly retreated into his mind-palace, probably to analyze what had went wrong.

And suddenly, John felt very very bad. Sherlock wasn’t a man of emotions or affection, but he tried, for John’s sake. And now, he brought himself to initiate the most intimate contact they had shared (so far), not because he felt himself pressured under a social circumstance but because he _wanted_ to kiss this idiot by the name of John Watson. An idiot, who was seemingly caught unaware by the change of emotion or simply embarrassed by it.                                                                                                            

As eager as he had seemed before, the lack of response made him visibly insecure. When there was one thing that John Watson cared more about than his pride, it was Sherlock Holmes’ happiness. And if there was one thing that made him more uncomfortable than a moment of humiliation, it was an open display of Sherlock’s insecurities. Because he knew very well they were there, buried deep below the surface of a self-proclaimed sociopath. Sherlock tried, he tried so hard, and John was about to lose his cool because he, for once, wasn’t the dominant part of a romantic relationship?  Seriously? What the hell was he doing? Fleeing because this bloody gorgeous man managed to catch him off guard? This might be a once in a life time chance (tho John hoped it wasn’t) and he was going to blow it over nerves?! Hell no! If Sherlock, who was so foreign to relationships, affection, feelings, wasn’t afraid to show John what he felt, why would he be? He invaded Afghanistan, god damn it, he could manage to kiss his best friend. Except… that it was _Sherlock_. And Sherlock mattered. John suddenly realized that it wasn’t at all the lack of initiation on his part that bothered him so much. He was scared of fucking it up. Sherlock was too damn important to him, he didn’t want to lose this man again in his lifetime, so naturally he was nervous about something that would alter their relationship so through fully. But it was alright…. Right? They both wanted this… right? John took ten quiet breaths, hand still on the doorknob.                                                                  

Oh bugger…

“Sherlock?” A curly head looked up with a kind of lost look on his face. Determined to follow this through, John grabbed the two sides of the open royal blue dressing-gown and tugged his friend down to his level. Luckily, he had the element of surprise going for him to cover up his nerves.  He let his lips hover a second over Sherlock’s, just feeling the warm breath of his detective hitch at their proximity. Oh, John was _such_ an idiot!  He had gotten so lost in feelings sorry for himself, and self-doubt, and ‘Sherlock’s married to his work’ that he had failed to realize how much his friend had changed since they sort of became a family. It was written clearly all over the usually so calm expression that Sherlock felt so much more than he had before.                                                                                                

“John?” the whisper was low and breathy, nothing more than a quiet sigh, but he’d be damned if he didn’t notice the vulnerability and trust Sherlock allowed himself to display. It warmed John’s heart – and something stirred in him that he didn’t allow to surface for a very long time. There they were again, the wonderful feelings of attraction and sentiment towards this wonder of a man, and finally John realized what he had so easily missed before: He wasn’t the only one who was (did he dare to think it?) _in love_ between the two. His realization must have appeared written all over his face (at least for the master of deduction), for Sherlock visibly relaxed and actually _grinned_. How he still managed to be smug, in a breathtaking moment like this, was beyond the lovesick doctor. “Took you long enough” A pleasant rumble against his parted lips was all it took and John lost it. Before he could stop it a, definitely not high-pitched giggle, small laugh (which bared close resemblance to a giggle…. Only it was manly as hell) bubbled in his throat. The look on the detective’s face was absolutely priceless. “Are you…. Are you in shock? Shall I get the blanket-“                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 “No” John tried to regain his composure, but the happiness spilled out of him like a waterfall. Somewhere deep inside John entertained the possibility that he had gone completely bonkers. But oh, he didn’t _care_! ´

 “God, I’m an idiot”

“And a confusing one to top it off”                                                                                                                                                                                         

“Oh, shut up you!” With this heartfelt exclamation, the now very late doctor let go of the soft fabric of his favorite Sherlock dressing gown to cradle the detective’s face in his hands; to pepper every inch of creamy white skin that he could reach with light kisses. The subject of his attentions let out a surprised squeal (ha, didn’t see that coming?!), before he snuck two long arms around the doctor’s waist to pull him into a warm Sherlock hug; the kind of hug as elaborated before was the best kind of hugs. John was absolutely content to stay like this for the rest of eternity, but alas, that’s not the way the universe had planned for him today. His phone vibrated angrily in his coat pocket, which was currently encircled by a Sherlockian underarm. “It’s Sarah, she’s not very pleased that you’re about to miss your first appointment of the day” John groaned and buried his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. He inhaled the musquy, clean, _Sherlock_ smell and listened to the steady heartbeat right underneath the skin. He inhaled and concentrated very hard to stop time. It would be fucking fantastic to call in sick to spend the whole day with Sherlock. But… he was a doctor and a father. A man of principles, a man of morals, a shining example for the younger generation. And a man who was about to get in serious trouble with his boss / ex-girlfriend for being late _again_. He comforted himself with the thought that his object of admiration would still be there when he came home that evening.

Sensing his decision, Sherlock tightened his embrace for a tiny second and then let go altogether. Before John had time to mourn the loss of Sherlock against his skin, the detective met him with another soft kiss on the lips. “Come home soon” his new lover (?), partner (?), soulmate (?), all of the above (?) mumbled very low and John’s heart swelled so much that he feared it would break the expanse of his ribcage (Not literarily, of course. He had a medical degree for a reason, thank you very much. But John Watson tends to be poetic when flooded with endorphins). The doctor rested his forehead against the detective’s for a small second, breathed a tiny laugh about this fucking glorious turn of events, and tangled a shaky hand in a nest of mahagony curls. 

“As soon as I can, love” John felt a tiny bit daring, throwing around endearments ten minutes into this new relationship, but the smile that lid up his best friend’s whole face at the praise was definitely worth it. John couldn’t help himself, he placed another kiss on this cupid bow, first appointment be damned, before he dashed out of the door. When he had jogged down the flight of 17 stairs, he hesitated at the front door, and turned around one last time.                                                                                              

Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock, was still draped against the wooden frame; all long limps and dressing gown and arcades of pale skin. He gave John a soft smile, with a rare twinkle of genuine happiness in his stormy eyes. John was 0.2 seconds away from blowing the whole plan, but Rosie solved his moral conflict by demanding (leaving zero room for arguments) for her ‘Lock to help her with the construction of a lego drawbridge. Sherlock sighed fondly, and flashed John one last grin, before the door to their flat closed.

 John blinked rapidly at the dark wood. Then he shook his head. Looked at the door again. Shook his head again. A gleeful noise escaped his lips without his permission. This was absurd, absolutely insane! Then again, everything was absurd and insane about them, but that made it so bloody wonderful. Who would have thought – who would have dreamed?! – that they would ever find themselves in a situation like this?   

 John Watson, being a single parent and widower of a best-friend-shooting assassin, dismissed all thoughts about romance in his life. He simply wasn’t made for it, he figured. But now, now he felt like he might explode with love for Sherlock – Sherlock, of all people! The Sherlock he wanted to be with ever since he asked that question at Barts all those years ago, the same Sherlock who had betrayed him, died, came back, watched him marry, made him so fucking angry, the same Sherlock who had kissed him. This very Sherlock had affectionate feelings towards him, the same affectionate feelings John had treasured all these years.                                          

Finally, finally everything was fine. No scratch that, better than fine, everything was brilliant! He would be able to be with Sherlock and to show him every single day for the rest of his life (as far as John was concerned) how thankful he was, how happy their little family made him, and how much he loved this unbelievable man. 

 John couldn’t wipe off that beaming smile off his face for the rest of the day, and found himself having a delighted jump in his step, when he picked up some take-away after his shift, eager to return to his daughter, his best friend, and to curry-flavored kisses.

**Author's Note:**

> The format might be a bit wonky, still figuering things out. Still worth a read, tho.
> 
> Comments and kudos are love!


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